"She bypassed Sean at the security desk, she told him you’d approved her access, and now she’s in your private study. She locked the door from the inside, sir."
Kieran lets out a soft, amused snort from the corner of the room. I glare at him, and the smile instantly vanishes from his face.
"Should I send a team?" Kieran asks, though his voice is twitching.
"No," I say, standing up. My fists are clenched so tight my knuckles are white. "I’ll handle this myself."
I walk up the stairs, my boots thudding against the stone with a rhythmic, angry pace. My blood is boiling. No one, absolutely no one, disobeys my orders. In my world, a direct violation of a command from the Don is met with a bullet or a blade. My men know it. My enemies know it.
And yet, this twenty-three-year-old girl is currently sitting in my private study, treating my compound like a resort.
I reach the heavy oak doors of my study. I try the handle. Locked.
"Atara," I growl, knocking once, hard enough to rattle the wood. "Open the door."
"I'm busy!" her voice calls out from inside, sounding entirely too cheerful. "I’m auditing your collection of classical literature. Honestly, Lorcan, why do you have three copies of The Prince? It’s a bit on the nose, don't you think?"
I don't waste time arguing. I reach into my pocket, pull out the master key card, and swipe it against the lock. The indicator dings green, and the heavy bolt slides back.
I push the door open and step inside.
She’s sitting in my massive, leather wingback chair. She’s changed out of the blue nightdress, unfortunately, but the outfit she’s chosen isn't much better for my sanity. She’s wearing a pair of tight, white denim shorts that hug her hips and a soft, oversized yellow sweater that slips off one of her creamy shoulders. Her bare feet are tucked under her on the leather, and she has a thick, leather-bound book open on her lap.
She looks up, completely unrepentant. "You know, locking doors is a basic right to privacy. You should really respect it."
"You are in my private study," I say, my voice dangerously quiet. I close the door behind me, the soft click of the latch sounding like a trap springing shut. "You violated the East Wing perimeter. You lied to my guards. You entered a restricted corridor."
"Your corridors are boring," she says, turning a page of the book. "And I wanted something to read. I told you, I’m used to active datasets. My brain doesn't just turn off because you decided to play jailer."
"This isn't a game, Atara!" I roar, the anger finally bursting through my control. I stride across the room, stopping right in front of the chair. I reach down and slam the book shut onher lap. "You are in the middle of a war! If Silas's men had breached the perimeter while you were wandering around like a tourist, you’d be fucking dead! Do you understand that? Your life is hanging by a thread, and you’re complaining about classical literature!"
She stands up, dropping the closed book onto the chair. She has to look up at me, her chin tilted, her chest inches from mine.
"Then let me go!" she screams back. "If my life is so hard to manage, throw me out! Let me take my chances! I’d rather be running from your ghosts in New York than sitting in this golden cage watching you look at me like you want to put me in a kennel!"
"You wouldn't last five minutes in New York," I whisper. "Silas would have you in a basement before you cleared JFK."
"I don't care! It's my life! It's my choice!"
She tries to push past me, her shoulder brushing against my chest. The contact is electric, a jolt of pure heat that shoots straight to my groin.
I react before my brain can stop me.
I grab her wrist. My fingers wrap completely around the delicate bone, her skin hot and soft against my palm. She freezes, her breath hitching in her throat.
"Let go of me," she whispers, her eyes locking onto mine.
"No," I say.
I yank her backward, spinning her around until her back slams against the solid wood of the bookshelf behind her. The leather-bound volumes rattle against her shoulders. I step into her space, my body pinning her against the wood. I’m towering over her, my hands flat against the shelf on either side of her head, locking her in.
The air in the room instantly changes.
She’s breathing in short, ragged gasps, her chest rising and falling rapidly. Because she’s so small, her hard, pert breasts are grazing my chest with every breath she takes. I can feel the peaks of her nipples rubbing against the fabric of my shirt, a torturous friction that makes my cock throb so hard it hurts.
"I told you," I whisper, my voice dropping into a register that is pure animal. "Do not test me, Atara."
"O-Or what?" she breathes, her voice shaky.
